


Virtuosity

by OldManHorseFace



Category: Funhaus (Video Blogging RPF), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future-ish, Gen, Michael-centric, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-03-04 12:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13365117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldManHorseFace/pseuds/OldManHorseFace
Summary: SID. Sadistic. Intelligent. Dangerous. An AI built to be the perfect serial killer and to offer the hardest challenge possible to up and coming cops in the safety of virtual reality.Of course, when dealing with an AI who's outgrown the confines of his code and is itching to feel real blood on his hands, it's best to assume that nowhere will be safe.--o--Basically the movie Virtuosity, but with AH/RT peeps. I'm reading the script to keep myself on track, so don't expect a play by play of the movie, if you've seen it, since they may not necessarily align 100% of the time (Hell, Jeremy's character is referred to as John Donley in the script but John Donovan in the movie.)Tags to be updated as more chapters are added.





	1. Almost Got Him

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't think of any good acronyms for Ryan, so I'm operating as if each version of Sid gets a nickname, and that just so happens to be the one Sid 6.7 chose for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30/3/18: Rewrite! Mostly just adding things throughout the story to smooth out the plot and such.

Michael forces his way upstream through the sea of business people, running about as well as he can while regularly barreling into people. Sounds of grunts drown into a static as he pushes himself as fast as he dares. He’s sweating like a pig, and he has no interest in possibly collapsing of heatstroke.

“Hey, slow down!”

He feels a little bit of irritation rise in his chest, and he slows his pace just a smidgen. He can’t afford to lose this trail, not when he was this close.

A gap in the sea of people allows to Jeremy to catch up to him, huffing and puffing. “God, you’re fast.”

“Lots of practice,” Michael replies.

“Guess that cop stuff doesn’t rub off so easy, huh?” Jeremy raises a brow at him.

“Five years isn’t too long for shit like that.” Michael hopes his tone suggests that maybe he doesn't want to talk right now.

Jeremy huffs out a snort. “He said to the guy who’d been in two years longer than him.”

“Okay, but who was a cop again?” Michael snaps, which makes Jeremy actually shut up and shrink back a bit.

“...You sure you’re going the right way?”

Michael holds back a swear and nods, short and curt. He’s just on the edge of losing this trail, and he needs Jeremy shut the hell up so he can focus.

After just a bit longer, he finds himself staring at an expensive-looking French restaurant. The name whizzes by overhead, not that he gives much of a shit about it anyway. He enters with Jeremy entirely too close behind, and he pauses to catch his breath and draw his pistol.

A waiter approaches as if he were just a normal patron, and he almost gets out a word before Michael shoves him aside and begins creeping carefully through the restaurant. For each scrutinizing glare he gives, he gets mild, innocent curiosity in return.

“The hell are we looking for?” Jeremy asks, breaking Michael’s focus.

“Eyes,” Michael tells him as he slinks forward. “It’ll be obvious.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“You’ll know.”

Jeremy sighs but doesn’t push it further as he moves ahead.

Michael slows, glancing to his left to see a woman and a tall man seated a table. The lady’s uninteresting, just like everyone else was, but the man, who has light brown hair with ice blue eyes and clothes far too casual for a place like this, is clearly making a point not to look at him.

Michael unloads on him immediately, then charges the guy. The guy – Ryan, Michael’s brain supplies – dives under his table for cover. Jeremy runs for a shot at him from the side, but the _stupid fucking_ _bitch_ stands up right in his fucking line of fire.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” Jeremy yells. She registers it twelve seconds too late, and Ryan grabs her and throws her into Michael. He’s dazed for just a moment, but that’s more than enough time for Jeremy to shift his focus from Ryan, who pulls his own pistol and fires into Jeremy’s shoulder.

“FUCK!” Jeremy screams as his weapon flies from his hand. His legs crumble from beneath him. He looks to Michael, panicked, but Michael can’t find it in himself to meet his gaze for more than a moment.

Michael struggles to his feet as Ryan stalks towards Jeremy. Not a beat passes before he draws his gun, but Ryan easily puts a hole in his shooting arm without even looking. The weapon lands with a clatter on the floor.

Michael pulls a harsh breath in through his teeth and charges Ryan. It was sloppy, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care. Ryan whirls around and kicks him in his stomach, nearly making him retch as he doubles over. A second hit, one he doesn’t see coming and can’t brace for, sends him to the floor.

He forces his head up, clutching his middle, and is met with Ryan casually choking Jeremy out on the floor. He grins wider when he notices Michael staring, struggling to get back on his feet.

“I’m gonna run a quick rehearsal with your friend, here,” he says like a parent instructing a child. “Just sit tight and we’ll be ready for you to take the stage in just a moment, okay?” He stands, lifting Jeremy’s unconscious up and onto his shoulder, and hurries deeper into the restaurant.

It takes Michael entirely too long to get back onto his feet, but he forces himself to pretend like his entire torso doesn’t hurt as he bends down to grab his pistol and run to follow Ryan.

He turns the corner to find the man all the way across the room with a hostage held in front of him. The busboy, a man just a bit shorter than Ryan, with scared blue eyes and long, dark hair, winces as Ryan grinds his pistol against his temple.

Michael keeps his gun handy in his good hand but doesn’t move. “Where the fuck is Dooley?!” he demands.

“Performing a soliloquy,” Ryan informs him, gesturing to an ice cooler off to the side with two wires snaking towards it. “It’s really quite moving.”

Michael glances over, then immediately regrets it. Jeremy’s body lies still under a pile of ice, soaked with water. His dead eyes bore right into Michael’s soul.

Just barely, Michael manages to rip his eyes away. Holding back a snarl, he levels his weapon at Ryan. His aim is horribly shaky, but he only hesitates a moment before he fires through the busboy’s chest into Ryan’s shoulder.

He watches the dead body crumble onto the floor, and he can just barely feel the wave of guilt he’s holding back. It takes a moment for him to turn back to Ryan, who’s frowning a little. “I was gonna do that...” he says sadly, but quickly brightens. “I was gonna do that! But you did it! God, we’re so in sync!”

Michael takes Ryan’s rambling as a chance to steady his aim, and he fires as soon as he gets his shot. His face quickly falls with the _click-click-click_ of an empty clip, and Ryan takes the opportunity to book it further into the kitchen.

Michael doesn’t hesitate as he gives chase as he pulls a fresh clip from his jacket. His arm screams at him over the movement, but the doesn’t let himself do more than hiss a little.

He stumbles into the kitchen to find Ryan gone, no doubt crouching behind the far corner of prep stations and machines. All he can hear is his own hard breathing and his heart pounding in his ears, which makes him more than a little nervous. Hesitantly, he takes a few steps forward, then waits for Ryan to pop out and attack him.

Suddenly, there’s something warm pressing against his back and something painful pinning his trachea closed. He drops his gun, and his fingers desperately scrape for purchase against his neck.

“Remember when I told you were going to take the stage soon?” he hears Ryan whisper into his ear. “It’s your cue. Break a leg!”

Michael’s vision begins to blur and glitch, the clear image abruptly turning to static in random sections and repeating itself in others, like his eyes are corrupted files. Distantly, he can hear Ryan shouting. “No! No! This isn’t fair! I’m not done! You can’t–”

And then everything goes black.


	2. Debreifing

It takes Michael far longer to rejoin the real world than it does to leave the virtual one. His brain is fuzzy, and his eyes aren’t quick to respond when he tells them to open. The bright overhead lights are blinding, and he jerks his head to the side as he squints.

He sees Jeremy seizing, but he’s too dazed at the moment to do anything but murmur, “Dooley...Somebody get Dooley...”

Someone comes up from where he can’t see and starts checking his vitals and tries to shake them off as well as he can with muscles reluctant to respond. “No, no, I’m...I’m fine.” Michael’s voice strengthens as the fog in his mind starts to clear. “Get Dooley.”

Whoever is checking his vitals ignores him, which makes Michael upset until two paramedics run up and finally start treating Jeremy. One holds him down while the other pulls out a needle of something clear and stabs into Jeremy’s arm. Then, Needle Guy throws his needle to the floor and starts CPR and then Michael has to look away. His own paramedic gives him a half-assed smile, probably trying to keep him calm.

“Dooley’s dead, isn’t he?” Michael asks. The paramedic’s face falls into a guilty frown, and Michael sighs. “Alright then.”

The paramedic leaves, maybe because he’s finished or maybe because he’s realized that his patient isn’t dazed anymore and doesn’t want to bother anymore. Michael doesn’t really care either way.

His attention drifts about wherever they have this whole VR site, tracking the scientists and engineers bustling about the open room. Eventually, it settles on a tall, lanky man rushing towards one of the machines off behind him. It takes a moment to put a name to a face, but Michael glares at Trevor as soon as it clicks.

“He only had a year left on his sentence, you know.” he snaps. Part of him knows he shouldn’t be so aggressive, but it feels too good to blame someone other than himself.

Collins gives him a seething glare. “Do you think I give a damn?”

Something breaks, and suddenly Michael finds himself on top of Collins, wrestling him on the ground. He manages to get a good hit in while Collins is screeching at him to get off, but two sets of strong hands rip him off before he can hit him again.

“You’re a sick fuck, Collins!” Michael yells as he’s pinned against the ground. Collins is too busy freaking the fuck out to reply, which makes him feel a little better.

He only fights the guards a little as they put back on his restraints, but he doesn’t bother to look guilty when Geoff approaches him looking more disappointed than usual.

“I’ll escort him from here,” he tells the guards, then helps Michael to his feet once they leave. “Are you okay?”

“About as okay as I can be,” Michael answers.

“Hey, you’ve cut six months off, at least,” Geoff offers him a half smile.

“Oh boy, I only have seventeen and a half years left! It’s almost like I’m a free man!” Michael liberally coats his words in venom.

“It’s better than nothing,” Geoff shrugs.

“What the hell happened to Dooley?” Michael changes the subject.

“Simulator fucked up and his brain got overloaded when Ryan killed him.” Geoff sounds just a smidgen guilty.

Michael stares at him for a moment, and it only takes Geoff a few moments to break and glance away for just a second.

“How long did you wait to pull him?” Michael lets more accusation into his voice than is probably necessary, but he’s far too hot to give a fuck.

“I didn’t wait for shit,” Geoff gives him a half-baked glare. “I told them to pull you two as soon as Dooley got killed, but Collins insisted on waiting.”

“For how long?”

Geoff sighs with a tiredness that only comes from dealing with this type of shit for years. “After Ryan downed you, he dumped Jeremy in a cooler of ice and wires in the room where he was holding that busboy hostage. Had it waiting, like he was expecting you.”

“And you didn’t pull him."

“Chances are that he wouldn’t have survived it anyways.” Geoff shakes his head. “What’s more important is why in the hell you shot the busboy.”

Within a moment, Michael snaps, “He wasn’t fucking real. He doesn’t matter.”

“You were supposed to act like it does,” says Geoff, far more calm than Michael wants him to be.

“I’ll act like it’s real when it’s actually real,” Michael replies, which makes Geoff just sigh then silently lead Michael off the police transport.

“I don’t think I have to say why there’s an issue with that,” he says.

It takes all of Michael’s self-control to not whirl around and try and punch Geoff in the face. “Fuck you!” he hisses, clenching his fists.

Geoff stares at him with all the remorse in the world for a long moment. “I guess I should stop sending you those Christmas cards every year, huh?” Geoff finally asks while he helps Michael into the van.

Michael huffs as a good chunk of his anger melts away. “...No.”

Geoff smiles, big and goofy, and nods. “Alright, then. Stay safe, okay?”

“No promises,” Michael lets himself smile just a bit, too. He wants to be more upset than he is, but Geoff is too damn good at what he does, and he knows it.

With a soft creak, Geoff shuts the door. The dark doesn’t bother Michael nearly as much as it probably would have if he’d still be so angry. It’s also way too early o’clock, and it doesn’t take long before he gives up trying to stay awake the entire way back.


	3. Repercussions

Michael, out of habit, wakes up as the transport van comes to a halt. The doors swing open, and Michael lazily turns his head to see two armed guards blocking the morning sunlight. One motions for him to come, and he does so automatically. The guard grabs him roughly and starts to lead him inside the prison.  
  
“Real sorry for you, Jones,” the second one, the one pressing a gun barrel against his back as he walks, sneers. “Lil’J getting fried is gonna get Willems pissed.”  
  
Michael doesn’t rise to the bait. His chest is bubbling full of guilt and stress, leaving no room for anger.  
  
They arrive at the receiving room far faster than he prefers. “Strip,” the first guard orders, and Michael obeys without complaint. Absentmindedly, as the guards are checking him for contraband, he wonders if a strip search is actually necessary. He’s pretty sure the amount of ball fondling that goes on during these strip search is abnormal.  
  
Regardless of normality, he’s grateful when the guards move onto a metal scan and then finally toss him back his jumpsuit. Second Guard quips something about his dick, but Michael doesn’t really register it as he’s taken to the cafeteria for breakfast.  
  
He can feel everyone’s eyes boring into him as he walks up to get his food. Even the cooks give him dirty looks, and it twists his chest even more. He does his best to ignore the attention while he flees to a corner. Just barely, he manages to get a few bites down before his stomach decides that’s enough, and he rushes off to the bathroom.  
  
By the time he gets there, he can hardly hold down the mess rising in his throat, and he vomits an ugly mix of bile and chewed food.  
  
There’s another man dead because of him. An innocent man. A man he speaks to – or spoke to – regularly.  
  
Michael dry heaves.  
  
Behind him, he can hear the door open, and he half expects it to be a guard coming in to see just what the hell is going on. What he gets is a hit to the back of the skull.  
  
It dazes him for a moment, which is more than enough time for his body to get pulled against something warm and an arm to wrap around his throat.  
  
“I noticed Jeremy’s not with you,” James says. “Didn’t you promise to bring him back?”  
  
Michael doesn’t answer.  
  
“You know he was Adam’s replacement, right? He was mine. You were supposed to bring him back.” There’s an edge to his voice now.  
  
“...Get off.”  
  
“Where is he, Michael?”  
  
“Get off.”  
  
“Where is he?!”  
  
“Get off!” Michael throws his elbow into James’ chest, and it crunches sickeningly into the bone.  
  
James cries out, Michael jumps on the opportunity to rip himself away. James recovers faster than he expects, though, and he nearly trips when there’s a suddenly a grip holding onto his arm.  
  
James yanks him close just to shove him away. His shoulder hits the wall at an awkward angle, sending a jolt through his chest. James rushes him, maybe trying to pin him to the wall, maybe trying to hit him somewhere.  
  
Either way, Michael times a punch to James’ face that makes the other man stumble off to the side. Another crunch comes with it, one that almost makes Michael wince, but he pays it no mind. Once again, he tries to rush out of the bathroom, and he does manage to get a few steps out the door before James yanks him back in.  
  
There’s a hit to his face that dazes him, then he’s thrown against the wall again. Suddenly, there’s a hand around his neck and something sharp poking dangerously into his chest.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” James guesses, twisting his wrists. Michael has no interest in challenging, so he forces out a something as close to an affirmative as he can manage.

James blinks at him like he doesn’t believe the words he’d just heard. Michael pretends like that doesn’t set off all of his alarm bells and jumps on the chance to try and retch the shiv out of James’ hand. He manages to rip it away from his chest, but it scores a long cut down his arm.

He kicks at James’ chest and manages to knock off the grip on his neck. He sprints for the door, but James isn’t nearly as dazed as he looks, though, and he tackles Michael in just a second or two.

He manages to slam Michael’s face into the filthy tiles a few times before guards burst in and rip James off of him. He can hear rabid screaming as James is dragged away, probably off to the med ward, then solitary.  
  
One of the guards, a tall guy with a thick, red beard, offers him a hand, which Michael accepts. The guard – Pattillo, if memory serves – gives him a quick once-over, then says, “C’mon, I’ll take you to the med ward.”  
  
Michael raises a brow at him, to which he replies, “You’ll be separated.”  
  
He holds the door for Michael and asks, “What the hell happened?” as he passes.  
  
“Dooley happened,” Michael answers, then says nothing else.  
  
Pattillo doesn’t push the issue and is even kind enough to walk him to his room before handing him off to the nurse.  
  
The nurse, Elyse, is a petite little lady, with sweet, green eyes and short, blond hair. Michael likes looking at her, mainly because her blonde hair reminds him a bit of Lindsay, and god knows how much he misses her.  
  
“What happened?” she asks as she extends Michael’s right arm out.  
  
“...Got into a fight,” he answers.  
  
“Was it James?” She unzips his jumpsuit, slips his arm out, and runs her fingers over the long slash along his bicep. A river of shiny silver peaks out from underneath the false skin.  
  
Michael stares at her in surprise for more than a moment before he stutters out, “Uh...yeah.”  
  
She gives him a bit of a glare, then pulls out a little bottle of sealant and roll of fresh skin. “I’m not stupid, Michael,” she says while she fixes up his arm. “I gave Jeremy his physical before you two left. I knew exactly what could happen, and I know James well enough to know he wouldn’t take it well if he didn’t come back.”  
  
Carefully, she cuts away the excess skin with a small pair of scissors and continues. “He didn’t take the divorce well, he didn’t take losing Adam well; he can’t handle loss. He’s too sentimental, misses things too much.”  
  
“Does he miss you?” Michael asks.  


Elyse hesitates for a moment. “I’m sure he does.”  
  
Michael isn’t sure how to reply to that, so he goes with the safe answer. “You should see Doctor Free. He’s done me a lot of good.”  
  
Elyse gives him a small smile, which gives Michael a bit of hope that she sees the honest care behind his generic answer. “...Maybe I will. Thanks, Michael.”  
  
Michael smiles back, bashful, before she leaves him alone with his thoughts.


	4. Acute

Michael sleeps a little better than usual in the med ward. Not nearly enough to be healthy – he’s not that lucky – but it’s enough to where he knows his therapist appointment might actually be of some use today.

He’s escorted to Doctor Free’s office by some guards who are painfully green. They keep him at arm’s length like some kind of rabid animal, as if he’s some kind of rabid animal. He hates the air it gives, but he prefers it to the guys who realize he’s not going to do shit to them and start fucking with him.

It’s a relief when he sits down across from Doctor Free. He’s wearing his prison psychiatrist face, which means that there’s a 50/50 chance Michael’s good mood is basically worthless now.

As soon as the doors close, Gavin gives him a great big grin. “Hello, Michael!” His tone is nearly too bubbly.

Michael raises a brow at the tape recorder sitting next to his hand.

Gavin waves him off. “It’s not on, and it’s more important I do my actual job first.”

Michael snorts but is appreciative nonetheless. “I got into a fight yesterday.”

“So I heard,” Gavin nods. “I assume it was with Willems?”

“Yeah, over Dooley.” Michael pretends like remembering that doesn’t bother him at all.

“That wasn’t your fault, you know.” Gavin easily sees right through his straight face. “I was in the control room; Jeremy’s vitals went off as soon as Ryan dumped him. You couldn’t have saved him if you wanted to.”

“Doesn’t make it any less shitty.”

“It’s not supposed to,” Gavin tells him. “I’m stating a fact. It’s up to you to accept it.”

There’s a long pause, and then Michael realizes that he’s clammed up like it’s his first time being here. He bites back an ugly mix of regrets and concerns and doubts sitting at the tip of his tongue and says, “Just get on with whatever they want you to do.”

Gavin stares at him like his entire jumpsuit is in flames, but just shakes his head and puts back on his official face and clicks on the tape recorder.

“Hello, Michael,” he says, nearly as monotone as monotone came.

Michael answers with a curt nod.

“How are you feeling today?”

“About as well as I can be,” Michael answers. He can feel where this conversation is heading, and he doesn’t like it.

“What about the simulation yesterday?”

“...Jeremy’s dead.”

“That doesn’t tell me how you feel,” Doctor Free presses him for the answer he’s looking for.

Michael hates what Doctor Free is doing with a burning passion, but he plays along for the tape recorder. “I feel like shit. Not much else to it.”

“Did you feel that terrible when you killed the busboy?”

Michael takes a deep breath as if it’ll quell the upset in his chest. “He wasn’t real,” he hisses through his teeth.

“You were supposed to act like it. Or at least act like you can experience empathy for those you slaughter,” Doctor Free says, calmly and systematically pressing all of Michael’s buttons. “Although I suppose one is a better number than seven.”

“It’s not my fault they got caught in that firefight,” Michael says. “If they were real humans, I would’ve been more careful.”

Doctor Free cocks a brow at him.

“I missed my shot,” he says probably a little too hastily. “I didn’t wanna kill him.”

“Or so you say.”

“I _do_ say,” Michael presses because he’s not gonna pretend like he’s the heartless murderer they desperately want him to be so they could throw the blame from themselves. Fuck that shit.

“Tell that to Narvaez.”

Michael bites back a few choice insults and maybe a sob, too. “Tina’s okay. She sends letters from time to time.”

“Narvaez isn’t.”

“Ray knew what he was getting into when he signed up for the job.”

“Did Lindsay know she was signing up to get kidnapped when she married you?”

“ _FUCK YOU!_ ” Michael shoots up immediately and just barely keeps his hands from wrapping around Doctor Free’s neck. He hears the guard burst in, but he honestly couldn’t care. A little bit of him is glad as they cuff his wrists and drag him back to his cell, but a bigger part of him can just barely feel the feeling of neck beneath his fingers.

He doesn’t respond when they shove him roughly into his cell. He’s probably going to solitary later unless Gavin decides to vouch for him. He usually does on days like this, but he’s also a lot less of a complete dickhead when he’s taking care of business, though, so maybe he won’t.

Michael doesn’t really give two fucks either way at the moment. It’s hardly dark when Michael curls up on his bed, but he’s entirely too pissed off still to care about anyone’s schedules but his own.

\--o--

_Michael blinks into reality staring at the dingy hardwood of the restaurant. It’s dead silent. There’s no one there but him._

_Except there are people here. Jeremy’s here. Ryan’s here. He can’t see them, not with his head down, but he can hear them. Jeremy’s screaming, screaming in an agony that spreads from Michael’s ears through his skull and down his spine. Ryan is laughing that stupid fucking sadistic laugh that resonates with something tucked away in Michael’s mind that he can’t quite pin down and settles like a skewer through his chest._

_His brain tells him he should get up, look up at the very least, but the air turns to molasses when he moves. Jeremy’s agony jabs spines right into his neck, like needles aimed right at his nerves, and Ryan’s laugh drips a slow, white-hot burn down his chest. Michael’s own scream gets caught behind jaws that won’t open, regressing from catharsis to self-pity to raw emotion that eventually dies in his throat._

_Suddenly, Ryan’s fingers, hot and scalding, are on the sides of his jaw, forcing his face up to face those empty, blue eyes._

_No, no, they’re not empty. Those eyes are full of hate. Pure, unadulterated hate. Not without a target, either. As much as Michael strains, he can’t even hear Jeremy breathing. It’s only him left._

_His chest is rapidly closing in on itself without Jeremy’s life as a support. He’s breathing through glass shards of Jeremy’s pain, which dig deep into his lungs. He tries to stop, to pause for even a moment, but another breath follows the last like chains tumbling from his mouth. Ryan’s ugly laugh spider webs white-hot through his chest, setting his very skin ablaze._

_“This is what you left him to,” Ryan whispers, tender as a father consoling his child. His grin softens into a gentle smile but never falters, even as he speaks. “This is what you left them too.”_

_Michael can’t answer, can’t look away, can’t even fucking blink. Guilt shoots right through his chest, and he doesn’t scream again._

_“This is your fault, Michael,” Ryan says, slow and deliberate so the words cut through him like knives. “No one’s but yours. You did this.”_

_Another spear of guilt, hotter and serrated this time, stabs up through his abdomen and nearly to his chin, and his throat finally lets him make some kind of noise. It’s a woman’s wail that comes from his lips, though, so high and shrill and familiar that just hearing it brings Michael so much pain that he can’t help but to keep screeching. His lungs, still prickling with bits and pieces of sharp pain, never empty of air, even though they grow tighter and smaller in his chest_

_Ryan smiles just a touch wider, then opens his mouth and says –_

Michael snaps awake to the feeling of something blocking his airway. Frantically, he pushes away at anything he can get purchase on, which ends with him backed up against the wall on his mattress, panting like a marathon runner, and his pillow lying across the cell.

It takes a solid couple of seconds before his brain finally registers that he is not, in fact, dying, and a couple more before he lays back down. A little tune worms its way into his head, an old thing that he doesn’t even remember the lyrics to. He clings to it like a scared child, humming what he remembers of the melody over and over until his heart stops trying to escape his chest.

His tone isn’t the best – it’s kind of off and unsure because he’s so quiet and not really going for tone anyways– but it’s enough to keep him grounded in reality for the rest of the night.


End file.
